


The Fragile Always

by francefrancerevolution



Series: The Flower Crown Revolution [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Art, Developing Relationship, F/M, I guess that's a thing now, M/M, Pining Combeferre, Platonic Soulmates, Relationship Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 06:42:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/936621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/francefrancerevolution/pseuds/francefrancerevolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some days Combeferre was okay with this, and others the realization hurt like hell. Some days being soul mates was enough to make him feel happy and whole, some days Enjolras’ smile was enough to make him forget all his worries. Some days, when they lay in bed together, Combeferre wondered what would happen if he leaned over and kissed Enjolras. If a crack would form in the atmosphere or something.</p>
<p>(in which Combeferre contemplates what being soul mates with Enjolras really means, and Eponine has all the good advice when it comes to crappy relationships.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fragile Always

**Author's Note:**

> So I decided to write a follow up to my last fic (Crowning Moments) and I'll probably write more in this series because I like flower crowns and the Amis discussing beauty and self-consciousness and how they relate to each other. So. I hope you like that kind of stuff, too. The first one in this series doesn't really need to be read before this. Just now that Jehan really likes flower crowns and Enjolras doesn't because he has awful pollen allergies. That is all.
> 
> (I'm on tumblr @ lamarque-geset-go; come flail over things with me.)

It was Combeferre’s doctor instinct that made him jolt awake at the ringing of the phone at six in the morning. If it was something normal, the caller would wait until a respectable time, when the other person would actually be awake, but early morning calls, and late night ones too, meant unforeseen things, accident, tragedies, death.

                   Because of this instinct, he would have grabbed the phone off the bedside table right away, except for the fact that Enjolras was sprawled across him and he couldn’t exactly move.

It wasn’t unusual for Enjolras to be in Combeferre’s bed; whenever he was ill or upset or angry, he would crawl into the bed beside Combeferre, resting his head against Combeferre’s shoulder and Combeferre would listen to him talk about his troubles, or simply stroke his hair until he started nodding off and went back to his own bed. Last night had started the same as always— Enjolras had come home late, pissed off about some injustice he had witnessed on the street, and as always, Combeferre listened and ran his fingers soothingly up and down Enjolras’ arm. As always. Except, when Enjolras started to yawn and his eyelids started to drop, he flopped down onto the pillow beside Combeferre and fell asleep right there. And Combeferre let him stay, because, if he was being honest, he liked having him there. He could tolerate a little injustice in the world, if it meant being able to curl up with Enjolras every night.

                   _Ring._

Right.

                   Combeferre rolled Enjolras to the side, ignoring his whimper of protest, and grabbed the phone. Caller ID said it was Jehan.

                   “Jehan? What is it? What’s wrong?”

                   He heard Jehan’s infectious giggle, and his heart stopped racing. “Oh, ‘Ferre, nothing’s wrong.”

                   “Then why are you calling so early?”

                   “Sorry! I’m just so excited. You know that flower crown portraits I did a few weeks ago? Well, I entered them in this contest and I won! They’re gonna be on display at the gallery this weekend!”

                   “That’s fantastic, Jehan. Congratulations!”

“Will you tell Enjolras, too? I want you all to come to the gallery with me. You’re my inspiration, after all.”

                   “What?” Enjolras mumbled into the pillow. Combeferre grinned, patting the mass of golden curls beside him.

                   “Yeah, I’ll tell him. See you later, Jehan.”

                   “Courf spent the night over here, by the way. So don’t worry when you don’t see him this morning,” Jehan said happily, before hanging up.

                   Enjolras rolled onto his back, sleepily cracking open an eye. His eyes always looked bluer in the mornings, like he started each day fresh and pure, and the color only turned darker once he stepped outside and saw the horrors of the world. “Is someone dead?”

                   “Nah. Jehan’s art project— the flower crown one— is going to be at an art gallery this weekend, and he wanted to invite us.”

                   “At six in the morning?”

                   “So it would seem.”

                   “Hmm,” Enjolras said, and rolled back into the pillow. “You don’t mind if I stay, do you?” he asked, voice muffled by the pillow.

                   “Not at all.”

                   Enjolras immediately fell back asleep, resuming drooling on Combeferre’s pillow and moaning pointless things in his sleep.

                   Combeferre watched Enjolras sleep for a moment, watched his curls rustle as he shifted in his sleep, listened to him grind his teeth together, studied the pale whiteness of his hands as they lay perfectly still against the sheets, before getting up to make the both some coffee. Enjolras was beautiful, but you couldn’t stare at him for too long. Then you’d just start wanting things you could never have.

                   It wasn’t like he was in love with Enjolras, Combeferre thought as he poured the coffee beans. Things between them had never been anything more than platonic. And it wasn’t like Combeferre wanted that to change, either. Neither did Enjolras. They were soul mates, but never lovers. Their hands fit together perfectly, but they would never fully grasp each other.

                   Some days Combeferre was okay with this, and others the realization hurt like hell. Some days being soul mates was enough to make him feel happy and whole, some days Enjolras’ smile was enough to make him forget all his worries. Some days, when they lay in bed together, Combeferre wondered what would happen if he leaned over and kissed Enjolras. If a crack would form in the atmosphere or something.

                   Enjolras came wandering into the kitchen, feet bare and hair flying in all directions. His eyes were only half-open.

                   “’Morning,” he croaked, voice hoarse from sleep, and Combeferre smiled, handing him his favorite red mug, full of his favorite coffee.

                   And Enjolras smiled back. And it was perfect.

                   Combeferre could live with just being soul mates for another day. They’d always have mornings like this. Always was such a fragile word, a promise of _always_ easily torn to shreds, but Combeferre glanced at Enjolras over his coffee mug and _no,_ when it came to Enjolras, nothing was ever going to be broken.

* * *

When Joly realized he had forgotten to pack his own special sandwich at work and complained all mornings because “I can’t use _your_ peanut butter, it was recalled last month” it was Combeferre who went outside to get the sandwich from Musichetta. Èponine was with her, standing outside the car and smoking a cigarette.

                   “Tell Joly that he’s a diva,” Musichetta said with an eye roll, tossing the bag to Combeferre. “ _Don’t_ tell him that this sandwich was made with the recalled peanut butter. It was all we had in the house.”

                   Combeferre grinned. “He’s shadowing an operation right now, I doubt he’ll want to eat anything after that.”

                   “Well, thanks for getting it anyway. You’re awesome.” Musichetta poked her head out the window. “Ready, Èponine?”

                   Èponine shrugged, squishing her cigarette underneath her shoe. “I can just walk from here. Thanks.”

                   “Text me later,” Musichetta said, in a tone that hinted they had a lot to talk about, before pushing her aviators over her eyes and pulling away from the curve.

                   Combeferre and Èponine stood there awkwardly for a moment, him holding Joly’s sandwich bag and her chewing at her fingernails, like she wished she hadn’t thrown that cigarette away.

                   Combeferre finally forced a smile. “How are you?”

                   “Peachy.”

                   “Are you going to Jehan’s gallery thing tonight?”

                   “Yeah, I’m going with Marius.”

                   “Marius?” Combeferre winced at how shocked he sounded.

                   Èponine snorted. “Calm down, don’t give yourself a heart attack from the shock. I mean, I’m going with Marius and Cosette. They’re just kinda a package deal, so I didn’t even bother mentioning her. If you get Marius, you get Cosette, and vice versa. Sorry for the confusion. Sorry for the shock because right, Èponine and Marius? What a joke!”

                   “I didn’t mean it like that.”

                   “Of course you didn’t,” Èponine snapped, but then she sighed, softened a bit. She smiled sadly. “Really, I know you didn’t. You’re a nice guy.”

                   “You don’t have to stay stuck on him, you know. There’s plenty of other guys out there. Better guys that Marius Pontmercy.” Combeferre grimaced again, because who was he to be giving sappy relationship advice?

                   But Èponine smiled. “Thanks, Combeferre. It’s just . . . I liked Marius for a long time, you know? And I don’t anymore, not really. But I still want to be in love with him. It’s hard, to give up the idea.”

                   “I know,” Combeferre said automatically.

                   “You don’t,” Èponine said, spinning on the heels of her boots to start walking in the opposite direction. “Maybe you’ll understand the feeling someday, but I hope you never do.”

                   _I hope you never do._ Èponine’s words and her bitter laugh echoed in Combeferre’s ears as he walked back into the hospital. He checked his phone, reading a text from Enjolras that asked him to pick up some honey on his way back home. His eyes focused in on the word _honey_ and he blushed, stuffing the phone back in his pocket.

                   _I hope you never do._

Too late.

* * *

Combeferre returned to the apartment that afternoon to find Courfeyrac sitting on the couch while Enjolras sat on the floor between his legs, struggling as Courfeyrac brushed his hair. They all made jokes about Enjolras’ hair, called it a lion’s mane or the feathers of angels, but it _was_ beautiful, really. Especially when it was falling around his face in soft waves, framing his features with gold.

                   Courfeyrac was gripping a red and blue flower crown between his teeth, but he dropped it upon seeing Combeferre’s glare. “It’s made of fake flowers, I swear!”

                   Enjolras nodded in agreement. “Jehan wants everyone at the gallery tonight to have a flower crown. He was nice enough to make me a plastic one.”

                   “Aren’t you supposed to make them with plastic flowers, anyway?” Combeferre asked.

                   “Not Jehan. Jehan is all about that fresh and organic look.”

                   “Speaking of,” Enjolras said, diving out of the way of Courfeyrac’s hairbrush. “did you get the honey for me, ‘Ferre?”

                   Combeferre tossed him the bear-shaped bottle.

                   “I thought vegans didn’t eat honey,” Courfeyrac said, arching an eyebrow.

                   “This is an emergency. I read that, in order to better tolerate pollen allergies, you should eat a lot of honey beforehand because it builds up your immune system against it.” Enjolras took the bottle into the kitchen, dumping out a spoonful of honey and tossing it down his throat. He coughed.

                   “Um, I think, if that even works, you’re supposed to do that way before.” Combeferre said. “You’re not going to be able to brace your immune system against pollen in an hour.”

                   “Watch me.” Enjolras defiantly swallowed another spoonful, nearly choking on the thickness of it.

                   “Don’t die,” Courfeyrac said. “And on that note, I’m out. I told Jehan I’d get there early to help him set up and control his anxiety over this. I’m taking the car.”

                   “What?” Enjolras glared at him, the look wrecked by the honey dribbling down his chin.

                   Courfeyrac shrugged. “Marius and Cosette are giving Èponine a lift, I’m sure they’d pick you up.”

                   That’s how they ended up squished in Marius’s car. There wasn’t legally enough room for three people to sit in the back, so someone was going to be sitting on someone’s lap. At this realization, Marius promptly handed Combeferre his keys, telling him that he trusted him to drive his car, and hopped into the back, letting Cosette climb onto his lap. Èponine sat beside them, arms crossed.

                   When Enjolras reached out to turn the radio off from the country station it was out, Combeferre got a whiff of honey. He bit his lip, clenching the wheel tighter.

                   Èponine glanced at him through the mirror, giving him a sympathetic smile. Combeferre pretended to not notice.

                   There were actually people at the gallery. Combeferre wasn’t sure why he was surprised. Jehan was an amazing artist, and he knew the flower crown pictures had turned out wonderfully. He had seen them. He was _in_ them. But still, it felt funny, seeing so many random strangers milling about and staring at pictures of him and his friends.

                   The pictures were arranged on the wall so that the picture of Enjolras was the main visual point, the blond hair like the sun they were all radiating around, and the rest of the pictures were spread out at various angles around it. Combeferre’s picture was in the top left corner. He wasn’t doing anything special in the picture, just smiling at the camera and wearing his flower crown, but it still looked stunning, somehow.

                   Enjolras came to stand beside him, crossing his arms. “Oh my god.”

                   “Your picture is wonderful.”

                   “I was mid-sneeze!”

                   “And you still look perfect.”

                   Enjolras smiled slightly, and all the art in the room was overshadowed. “Thank you. What did he call it? ‘ _The Martyr’._ Very dramatic.”

                   “I suggested that he call it ‘ _Apollo Has Really Bad Allergies’_ but I was tragically shot down,” Grantaire said as he came up behind them, glass of wine already in hand. He was wearing jeans with a tie and button down shirt, and somehow, by some strange force of nature, managed to look good.

                   Enjolras laughed. Actually laughed. At Grantaire’s joke. Combeferre swallowed, pulling at the collar of his shirt in hopes of loosening it before he choked.

                   He thought back to what Èponine had said. Sometimes, you want to be in love with someone. He wanted to be in love with Enjolras because Enjolras was beautiful, because Enjolras slept in his bed sometimes, because Enjolras understood him, because he understood Enjolras, but it simply wasn’t. What Combeferre and Enjolras had wasn’t love. It was convenience.

                   He wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

                   Jehan came skipping over to them. He was wearing all black, except for the strand of white flowers over his red-blond hair, and looked like he had stepped right out of one of his paintings on the wall. He threw his arms around each of them, and Combeferre was sure he would have made some kind of high-pitched squealing noise if it hadn’t been for all the art patrons around.

                   Jehan grabbed Enjolras by the hand. “Come on, I want to introduce you to some people. Everyone wants to meet you, your picture is definitely a favorite! You too, Grantaire. Where did you even get that wine, the bar just opened? Anyway, come on, some people want to meet you too. Come mingle with the artists.”

            Combeferre watched Enjolras get dragged away, half-expecting him to reach back and grab him. Half-expecting him to say _but what about Combeferre?_ And Combeferre half wanted to shout after him: you slept in my bed two nights ago, Enjolras. I brushed out the knot in your hair you couldn’t quite reach. _We need each other._

Instead, he watched him walk away with Grantaire and Jehan.

            It didn’t take him long to find Èponine. She was leaning against the bar, her phone in her hands, staring down at the screen like she was absorbed in texting someone. But Combeferre could see that her fingers weren’t moving.

            “Hey,” he said casually, slipping around Marius and Cosette to stand beside her.

            “Hey there.”

            A pause. Then, Combeferre swallowed and said, “I think I know what you mean now. About hurting because you want to love someone, but then you realize there are never any love there in the first place.”

            Èponine raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s exactly what I said. But I know what you mean. You’re talking about Enjolras.”

            “I might be.” Before he could stop himself, he went on. “I’ve known him for so long, and we’ve always been . . . close. I guess I just convinced myself that he wanted something more, that he just wasn’t saying anything, and I convinced myself to feel emotion for him, too. But I never felt anything, and neither did he. I was only fooling myself.”

            Èponine smiled gently. “It hurts, right? It’s one thing to have people lie to you. But when you realize you’ve been lying to yourself, that’s when it really sucks.”

            Combeferre nodded numbly.

            “Look, you and Enjolras, even if there was a romantic spark, would be terrible for each other. You’d sit around and read books together and never leave the apartment. Admit it.”

            Combeferre smiled and admitted it.

            “R will be really good for him,” Èponine said.

            “Since when did he and Grantaire become a thing?”

            “Since they snuck out onto the back balcony together five minutes ago.”

            “Oh.” Combeferre felt that pang of jealously again, but Èponine was right. He loved Enjolras. Enjolras loved him. They would still have their _always,_ their sleepy mornings and late night discussions, but it would mean other people now. It would mean Grantaire. It would Combeferre thought as he stared at the strangely wise young woman in front of him, hopefully mean Èponine.

            He looked at the picture of Enjolras on the gallery wall. Enjolras wasn’t something you kept to yourself. Everyone loved Enjolras, and suddenly Combeferre was grateful that he had kept him to himself for as long as he had.

            “I feel better now,” he told Èponine

            “Better enough to steal Courfeyrac’s car and get out of here with me?” She batted her eyelashes. Combeferre laughed.

            “Of course. Anything for you, after all the advice you gave me. Thanks for that. Really. I mean it. Thank you.”

            Èponine smiled back. “Always,” she said.


End file.
